Once You Go Growly

Chapter 1 Ellie

ELLIE

The moderator leans closer, the smile in his voice curving dangerously near patronizing, "Ellie, could you share a little about your journey toward embracing your visibility? How do you navigate taking up space, both literally and figuratively, in the media world?"

Don’t let this jackass see he’s gotten to you.

"Well, it’s a work in progress. Like a long-term investigative project, but the subject is considerably less cooperative."

The audience chuckles, the laughter jagged but warming slightly.

Continuing, I press on with deliberate precision, "There’s this pervasive notion that confidence is a switch you can just flip one day.

Reality is much less neat and tidy. You trip over it, stumble around in the dark, then light a match just in time to see you’re on the edge of a precipice. "

The moderator clears his throat. “Ellie, how could the media better represent diverse body types?”

I blink, shifting to performative formality. “Ah, yes. The million-dollar question.” I smile, a reflex from years at magazine launches. “Step outside stereotypes. Hire models who take longer than ten minutes for lunch.”

The audience chuckles; it’s low-hanging fruit, but they bite. “But surely,” she presses, “as a journalist…”

I suppress a sigh. “I’m the one who says, ‘Hey, the emperor’s not wearing clothes, and we don’t all look the same.”

Laughter and applause ripple. Despite the phones raised to capture me, I somehow manage to keep my presence.

As the dialogue volleys like hand grenades, a warm feeling settles in. No more invisibility shields. “Ellie,” a voice from the front row interrupts, “what’s your main advice for someone on a similar journey?”

“Embrace visibility.” My words linger longer than intended. “At least if you're nervous, you'll still be honest.”

Cameras flash like electric fireflies. I’m exposed, but isn’t visibility how the unseen become unforgettable?

After the interview concludes, swarms of people approach.

Compliments drip like honey, rich and sincere.

It conjures a dangerous feeling that I would be easy to get used to.

It’s a feeling I can only imagine might have been experienced by Cleopatra as she was fanned on her litter while being fed grapes.

Somewhere in the crowd, two women engage with my words like they're pieces of an unsheltered puzzle offering clarity. "She’s inspiring," says one, in awe. “Bold," adds the other, affirming.

—

Dick Wallace leans against his desk. I can tell he’s going for some kind of chummy energy that is meant to soften the blow of something, and I’m already bracing for whatever the blow is going to be.

"Chin up, Ellie. The photo isn’t as bad as you think."

I glance up from my notes. "Huh? What photo?"

He chuckles, masking a frown. "Christ, you haven’t seen it?"

"Seen what?"

"This photo,” he says, holding up his phone to display a horrific image of me stuffing my face with the club sandwich I had on my lunch break. “It’s spreading faster than coffee in the newsroom."

I cringe inwardly and search for humor in his weathered face. "A picture of me mid-sandwich isn’t newsworthy."

His smile falters. "Fame’s unpredictable. This image has gone viral. I’m sorry, but if you weren’t excited about the reasons for your growing fame yesterday, you’re going to hate them today."

"My days as the lunchroom laughingstock ended in high school."

The hum of fluorescent lights in my editor's office buzzes as I sit with my notebook clutched to my chest like a life preserver. He waves off my concern, hoping that the display on his computer monitor will distract me. Dick points at engagement numbers like a proud hunter/gatherer of statistics.

"You know," he starts, gesturing with an oily enthusiasm, "the response to your last piece was phenomenal. People really connected with you."

Dick leans back in his chair and smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Ellie, you're making waves," he begins, tapping a finger against the tabletop. "The higher-ups are buzzing."

The words fill me with something close to pride - and a little nausea - as a rush of validation warms my skin.

"People are talking about your latest piece," Dick continues, leaning forward, his elbows propped on the desk. "It’s not just the reporting they’re interested in, though."

My brow furrows, the warmth trickling slightly out of reach. "The story's got weight."

"Sure, Ellie, sure," he says, folding his hands.

How does my editor always manage to gleefully sound like Henry Potter plotting to destroy George Bailey?

I sense a shift in his gaze, a subtle ellipsis dangling between his words. "But what they're fascinated by is your… ah… discomfort."

The chill really starts seeping through now. I tilt my head, forcing a smile. "Discomfort?" I echo.

"Your vulnerability is intriguing to them," he clarifies, choosing his words with surgical precision. "The way you… well, the way your… personage… conveys fear before the… inevitable confidence kicks in."

The heat recedes completely now, replaced by a dull chilly thud inside my chest. This wasn't the recognition I craved. This wasn't about the story, the painstaking investigation, the truths unearthed in ink and paper. It was about me—me as a spectacle, a subject rather than creator.

I stand abruptly, months of meticulous work feeling suddenly weightless. "Thanks for the feedback," I mutter brusquely, turning on my heel.

"We seem to have stumbled upon a moment,” he says rather desperately to my back. “Moments are powerful, Ellie."

Oh, good lord. Now moments are apparently more important than meaning.

I couldn’t help but smile, embracing sincerity. "I don't create moments. I report on them."

He continues trying to soothe my resistance. "Maybe not intentionally, but it works. It’s relatable."

"Relatable or reductive?" I ask sharply.

"Think of it as expanding your brand," he presses. "Visibility can be your strength."

My jaw tightens. "Im not a sideshow," I say, closing my notebook.

As I step back into the office, I grasp what's been sacrificed. My profession is on hold while my presence is what they're banking on.

I have the ominous sense of a countdown. And it’s ticking away.

As I leave Dick’s office, my phone buzzes with Jess’s name. I was excited and feeling celebratory when I texted her earlier, but I’m now in no mood to talk. Still… an opportunity to vent would be nice.I hesitate another moment before picking up.

“It’s my turn to buy drinks, right?”

“Are we talking boxed wine or top-shelf?”

I chuckle. “No boxes. Promise. But plenty of venting. I just got out of a meeting with Dick and it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had.”

“That’s a start. I want to hear the entire self-pity playlist, track by track.”

“I feel like the laughing and pointing will begin any second.” My voice falters.

Jess pretends I’m not about to have a meltdown.“So drinks then?”

“Definitely.”

“See you soon.”

I hang up and head for the break room. I wish for invisibility as I approach the coffee machine, feeling the weight of curious stares.

Back at my desk, each keystroke amplifies in the newsroom's hum. Muted conversations are punctuated by smirks.

By the time I’m home, the day’s dust settles but my racing pulse does not. The photo feels like a hall pass for scrutiny. The issue isn’t just the photo—it’s the kind of spotlight it brings.

Walking home from my subway stop gives me too much time to remember how many times I’ve felt this way. In so doing, I have little recollection of actually getting there.

I thought I was safe, tucked in the anonymity of the crowd, but the old feeling crawls back, its presence insidious.

It harkens back to playground taunts, those years framed by the merciless spotlight of attention twisting into ridicule.

The jibes about my size, transforming me into a spectacle.

Back then, invisibility equaled safety. I learned quickly: the less you stood out, the better protected you were from the emotional gutting of a judgmental audience.

But I've grown. Or so I thought. I carry myself with quiet confidence. Or I did.

Until today.

My phone has been ringing since the subway, and I know it’s Jess calling to try to cheer me up. We texted earlier, and she is the only one who knows how devastating this really is for me. To everyone else, I’m stoic. I’m strong. I could care less.

Jess knows better.

I finally answer her call on the seventh ring as I’m walking up the steps to my front door.

“I think you should take some time off and just get out of town for a while,” she says without preamble. “I know you’ve got loads of unused vacation days. You could be off until Christmas. Next year. And still have time left over.”

“I will not be chased out of town,” I say through gritted teeth. “Besides, what about our girl’s night? I owe you drinks, right?”

“No one’s chasing you anywhere. This is about you, and we can do drinks another time,” Jess is pushing hard. I love that she’s concerned, but this is the last conversation I want to have right now.

Still, she is relentless.

“In between rage texts from you this afternoon, I came across this blurb online about a small town in Massachusetts called Moonhaven. It’s supposedly shrouded in mystery due to some weird disappearances that have occurred over the years. Plus, the town sheriff could melt ice in Alaska.”

“So you want me to go talk to another man who doesn’t want to give me the time of day?”

Jess let’s out a dramatic exasperated sigh. “Oh, don’t act like men don’t find you attractive. When we go out, you get hit on more than I do. I’m just saying that a change of scenery could do you good with the added bonus of a cute sheriff to look at if you get tired of fall foliage.”

“I don’t know,” I really want this call to be over. “Maybe. Probably not. I’ll think about it, okay?”

Once in the door, solitude’s embrace is flawed but familiar.

Who am I kidding. I’m definitely a sideshow now.

No mirage of ambition to mask this fracture. I've clawed up from erasure only to find myself framed as a horrific caricature. I've unknowingly scripted my open discomfort for an audience more fascinated by clumsiness than actual revelations.

I’m hit by a suddenly agreeable urge to follow Jess’s advice. More than anything I want out. Out of this drama. Out of this city. Out of this microcosm of scrutiny.

I pack quickly, and—at the same time—I do a quick Google search on Moonhaven’s so-called mystery. I’m intrigued enough to use this as an excuse to go.

To flee, you mean.

As I step into the elevator, I’m surprised to feel relief. New York is the epicenter of my professional origin, but Moonhaven speaks of new beginnings.

And peace. Glorious… invisible… peace.